[Event 2] fate and fortune, both are cruel {{Feli&Mi

[Mihai C. Eliade]

there's a bad moon

rising

T

he early hours of the Archadian morning were cold, and Mihai shivered in his too-thin shirt. The world was still foggy at this time, blurry and indistinct, matching his state of mind. He'd been rudely sequestered at three that morning; he'd been laying in bed, not having slept at all, before being warned with a couple bangs on his door and then faced with a guard telling him he had five minutes to get dressed and report to the conference hall. Blearily, he'd done as he'd been told, throwing on a simple button-up and jeans, and even without having checked in the mirror he was certain he looked an exhausted mess. Indeed, at the current moment there was not much more keeping him awake than the biting cold of five o'clock air and the anxiousness over a certain person regarding the news he'd received.

The reason he'd been woken earlier than the dawn—on a day he had nothing scheduled, no less—regarded a certain event in the Underground that made his stomach twist into knots. He, along with a few other government slaves, had been briefed on an outbreak—just the bare essentials, not that he had expected any more. Yet, not knowing the how or who—that made him nervous. How had the breakout happened? Who had made it out? Was anyone hurt? Had anyone died? The questions crawled and itched beneath his skin like insects.

He'd hoped to be part of the group patrolling the streets: then, he'd be free to look for the single person whose fate that chaotic night he actually cared for. But he'd had no such luck, not that he had expected any more from luck either. Instead, he was assigned rounds along the perimeter of government property, which he knew he would be expected to keep at until late that night or until he collapsed of exhaustion. Whichever came first. He hoped against hope that Arthur would not be daft enough to come looking for him here. Or he hoped that Arthur would, and he would finally get the courage to do something decent in his life and they'd both leave together. Or, hell, maybe he hoped Arthur had not gotten out at all—he didn't know. His feelings were all fragmented between the cautious optimism of what freedom would bring and fear for the punishment that befell those who could not make it to freedom. After all, he'd been charged with looking for and capturing any escaped mutants he might find (not that he knew why anyone would think he'd be effective at capturing anyone more powerful than a six year-old, but that was another matter). All the others on patrol were under the same orders as well, and he dreaded to think that many of them were much more ruthless and a great deal more powerful than he, though it was only Arthur's well-being he was chiefly concerned with. He refused to think of his fixation as heartless—rather, necessary and inevitable. There was little room in his life to care for more than a few people, and thus, he prayed that no one would come his way.

In that sense, at least, luck had been on his side. The first few hours of his patrol had proved uneventful, and he wanted the rest of them to stay that way. He would prefer not to have to choose between his sympathies to other slaves and his dread of whatever consequences the government could dream up for disobedience. He was fairly certain he already knew the choice he would make—nevertheless, he didn't want to find out for sure. And so the silhouette that he dimly saw ducking through the fog made him feel sick.

He faltered a moment—a long moment. He wanted to shrink down and hopefully whoever it was wouldn't see him and continue on their merry way, but he'd be in trouble if someone found out he hadn't been doing his duty right. He had to go, and maybe they might not even be an escapee. Maybe they were a supervisor or a civilian or just some slave who'd wandered into the wrong place, though his gut told him differently. None of those people would be ducking between buildings at five in the morning. Feeling on the verge of throwing up and his teeth clenched against it, he forced his legs to take him in the direction of where he'd last seen the indistinct figure.

Peering into the alleyway, he didn't find anyone at first. It was deserted, save for a dumpster and some boxes deposited by the kitchen crew. There was not even a mouse in sight, and he was almost relieved. Perhaps the shadow had merely been a figment of his imagination, brought on by all the anxiety he felt over the news of the outbreak, but just as he turned to walk away, his eyes caught an errant movement. Before he thought through it enough to keep on turning and act as though he hadn't seen a thing, he'd reversed his course, his legs carrying him over to the place he'd spotted activity. Like a well-programmed automaton. He hadn't even needed to think about it this time.

And when he finally got a good look at the trespasser, he was at a loss for what to say. He could hardly demand for the man to come with him; Mihai had no way to force him if he resisted. In any case, Mihai wasn't sure if that was what he wanted to do, but neither was he about to take the stranger's hand and introduce himself. Silence reigned before he finally opened his mouth found the breath to say, "You shouldn't be here." The words were delivered in a flat tone, but he could not hide the roughness in his voice, wrecked by the nerves that would soon hit him full force and he wasn't sure what he would do then. Sink into the ground and through the Earth's core, if only. God, he felt so sick.

Word Count: 1012 || Tags: Feliciano Vargas || Notes: Hope this works! Let me know if you need anything changed.

by worldie on iof

[Feliciano Vargas]

Freedom. Feliciano had preached the concept to anyone willing to listen. He'd hoped for it. He'd prayed for it. He'd imagined it. In all of his dreams, though, the Italian thought it'd be an easy life, one just like everyone else's. No prejudice, no pain (at least not physical, nor every day), plenty of food--it was good, simple. He'd wake up, eat breakfast, either wander the streets as he pleased or sit at home and spend time with a pet, or maybe his brother. Maybe Ludwig would be there, and they could paint, or bake, or anything they wanted. Some days he'd work, of course, but it would be fun, worthwhile work that he enjoyed. These were dreams, he knew that, but just being able to do as he pleased; that was worth the hardships of life, right?

He never imagined the sharp burn in his sides, the chilly air biting at his skin, the fear sending him glancing back and diving into the cover of darkness at ever little sound. He never imagined he'd be on the run, dozens--or more--guards chasing him down with weapons in hand meant to beat him to submission, and then some. He'd never imagined the exhilaration thrumming in his veins on the sweet song of victory.

It wasn't everyone, goodness no, but Feliciano had broken out most of the cellblock before the first alarms had gone off. Just like the others, sleep had him cradled in its grasp once Light's Out came. It was a fitful sleep, but sleep nonetheless. Until the floor and wall separating his cell from the one to his left had all but exploded in a burst of icy water and crumbling rock. One of the water mains connecting his sink and toilet to the others, supplying the devices with water, had ruptured, awaking most of the mutants in its bone-rumbling bang and the loud sloshes of water splattering out over stone in a never-ending stream. The sound alone was nearly enough to knock Feliciano entirely, a cacophony of screeching, tearing metal, crumbling stone, rushing water, and alarmed sounds hitting his eardrums like a punch to the head.

The Underground was severely understaffed for nighttime--that was always a given. With the unbearable chill even in these warm months, the monotony of sleeping forms, and long hours, it was hard to get anyone to pick up night-shift and stick with it. Little Dmitri, that sadistic jerk, was the guard for their cell-block, and the only one to have heard the noise. Barreling into Feliciano's cell to examine the damage, the Italian himself still sitting dizzy upon his bed, the young man was too wound up by the sudden burst to pay attention to his surroundings. The door to his cell hung half-open, Dmitri with his back to the shrunken mutant, and so, so many pieces of stone just...lying around...

Who could blame Feliciano for taking a chance?

The man went down with hardly a sound, blood staining the back of his head. The amount of force he'd managed to draw up bothered Feliciano more than he'd care to admit, but what was done was done. Those who would rat him out in an instant were too stupefied to speak as he liberated the keys from the unconscious guard's control and bolted from his cell. There was no hesitation in his mind, either--if he was leaving, so was everyone else.

It took a lot of time--even moreso once he'd managed to free both Ludwig and Lovino and forced them with the rest of the fleeing mutants--but he'd managed to get the entire cellblock free of their cages, each mutant armed with hastily whispered directions to the nearest exit. (Feliciano only knew its location from being dragged in and out of the Underground during the Festival back in January, and the directions were guesstimations at best) All he had to do was escape himself, meet up with Ludwig and Lovino (he could easily track the two down by scent alone, even in this frenzied crowd), and...

What Feliciano had planned after that, he couldn't remember. He'd been intercepted on his own way out, nearly crashing headlong into a crowd of guards fighting viciously with the mutants powerful enough to hold them at bay but angry enough to drag the altercations on past what was needed to escape. It was all a mess of sensations, and he'd gotten caught by a few attacks from both sides trying to pass by. He couldn't afford to backtrack all that way to a different hallway--he'd only run into someone else.

The first sight of the city, free of any chains (but not any pains, his throbbing skull reminded him with the slick well of blood staining his temple) and guards to tie him down, knocked the breath out of his lungs. It wasn't particularly beautiful--he could see where dirt stained stone and concrete, the streetlights reflected off the fog and turned everything a dizzying shade of umber, but it was his now. These were his streets to wander, his buildings to fawn over, his free air to breathe. Nothing could hold him back now.

He was free!

Despite himself, the slew of mutants still fleeing into the fog around him, Feliciano let out an excited cheer, body trembling under the force of realizing that he was out of the Underground. Those were clear skies above him, no walls to trap him in--and so long as he was careful, he'd never be dragged from this place again. At first, he ran simply because he could. The sidewalks hurt his bare feet, but with the sensation of cold air rushing over his skin, chilly but crisp in a way the air in his cell could never be, and that taste of complete control he'd never truly felt until this moment, kept the pain away.

...At least until he nearly ran into the side of a building. The fog had a dampening effect on his powers that made it hard for him to hear the echoes like he was used to. He couldn't smell quite as well, either--and don't even get started on sight. This wasn't a problem, though. So long as he kept going, he'd be fine. The guards, well-fed and rested as they are, couldn't dare compete with him now. Desperation never colored Feliciano so thoroughly before. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do to keep ahold of this freedom he'd found--both for himself, and those he'd rescued from their own cages (but especially Ludwig and Lovino).

Still, though, hours of constantly running, getting twisted around in the dark mazes of alleys and dead-ends between all these buildings, had left the Italian gasping for air, limbs begging for relief. He'd managed to avoid any pursuers he'd nearly run into out and about the city, but food and rest were necessary to keep going now.

All Feliciano had done was duck into an alley behind a large building near the park--which had unfortunately been a bad place to try and hide, given all its openness. There was the scent of food down here, stronger and richer than any of the slop they served his kind. Stopping to rest here, so long as he found the source of that mouth-watering smell, would be good. No one would find him back here, right?

The sound of footsteps behind him, amplified by tall stone walls on all sides, nearly gave Feliciano a heart attack. He'd let himself become distracted, and now someone was here. Diving behind a stack of boxes, unfortunately empty, he'd curled up in the smallest ball he could manage and froze, straining his ears.

He couldn't have seriously been found already, could he? The brunette had evaded everyone else already! He wasn't so exhausted that he could blame fatigue on this foolhardy mistake, either--he'd simply let himself get distracted. One moment of reprieve and he was lost?

That's not fair.

Whatever good luck had found Feliciano today, giving him this shining opportunity for escape, had to've drained out. That's all he could surmise as a subtle shift to curl up tighter had knocked off one of those boxes upon his head. The Italian had tried to stay still and let it fall, such a weak material couldn't hurt him, but still his pursuer's attention had been caught--of course it had. The action had been so obvious, it was impossible to miss.

Soon, unwillingly, he found himself face-to-face with the person who'd stumbled across him so unluckily (at least on Feliciano's end). Shaggy blonde-brown hair, tired eyes so bloodshot they appeared red to his gaze, and pale skin on a face set in blatant discomfort--this man couldn't be much older than himself, and he looked tired. Very tired. Had he not been still frozen in the idea of "if I don't move, he can't see me," Feliciano might've furrowed his eyebrows in sympathy. Why was the man awake at this hour, he'd almost entertained that thought. There could only be one true reason the other was awake, though. Go out and collect the escapees. Feliciano could only pray that he could talk his way out of this, even dressed in the flimsy, uncomfortable garments of the Underground--and pray that none of the other mutants would make this mistake and let themselves be caught, as well.

"You're not supposed to be here," he was told, voice cracking and trembling with--with something. Feliciano wasn't sure what, but he couldn't help but relax just a little at the words. Not an immediate arrest. That played well for his hopes of escape. The boy was tired--Feliciano was exhausted, but he still placed his own bets on a successful run, should it come to that.

He straightened up just a little bit, glancing around the alleyway as if he hadn't seen it before. It was safe to take his eyes off the other solely because his ears were still firmly focused on the sounds of the other man. Th-thump th-thump th-thump, beat his heart, a little faster than Feliciano was expecting but not the heartbeat of someone preparing for a fight. "V-Ve, I don't think you should be here either," he murmured in response, lifting his gaze back to those exhausted-looking eyes, crinkled unpleasantly at the corners. "You don't look very good--you should go home and rest."

[Mihai C. Eliade]

there's a bad moon

rising

T

he sight he was faced with was a pitiful one. A slight frown furrowed his brows as he took in the state of this trespasser: brown hair hanging limp around his ears from the dampness of the morning, face pale and drawn with blood streaked down the side, thin—alarmingly so. He was not equipped to face late-fall weather in Archadia either, dressed as he was in only a thin-looking shirt, and, Mihai noticed as his gaze dropped down the other's figure, barefoot. It was painfully obvious where this man had come from—not even the homeless in Archadia could be found in such a state, as the humans somehow found enough charity in their small little hearts to bestow them with footwear. He felt a soft flare of sympathy for the stranger, but it simmered only under his knowledge of what he should—had to—do.

He had expected for the other to try to dissuade him from it. No one, after all, would readily give up their long-awaited liberties, and he wagered he would feel the same if he were either fortunate or unfortunate enough to be roaming freely on the streets. Yes, he expected something—begging, maybe, trying for the chance to outrun him, an attack… The man didn't look aggressive, but nevertheless, the possibility of the last scenario brought Mihai's hand down to the side of his leg, pressing surreptitiously against what makeshift weaponry he had concealed in his pockets. The government was not even gracious enough to offer him something to use in his own defense during this supposed jailbreak of dangerous mutants, so he had to make do with what he had—a scalpel, stolen from the infirmary's reserves a few months ago.

Yet, when the man finally spoke, the words were completely unprecedented ones. There was a moment of silence as the suggestion sank in, Mihai blinking once or twice in surprise. Had the stranger just advised that he go home and rest? This poor, cold, dirty little thing, just on the verge of being caught and sent back to the prison he probably called home, and he thought a bit of sympathy for his captor would hinder that fate? That was the strategy? The idea was laughable, and Mihai did laugh, a bark of bitterness and disbelief. Yes, wonderful idea, he wanted to say. Why don't I just abandon my post and return to my warm, comfortable bed and see what atrocity Zwingli will want to dish out when he finds out later? But a suggestion like the one the stranger had made could only be said under the assumption that his discoverer had any semblance of free will—human, that is. Mihai would not do himself the disservice of dispelling that notion.

Still, he could not resist a slight scoff once his composure returned. "As if I had a choice," he muttered. Then, his eyes flicked back to the other man, looking him up and down again. There really was little mistaking from where he had come. Mihai leaned back against the wall opposite, the image of casual conversation even as he watched the stranger carefully for any sudden action. The pose belied the tenseness he felt, buzzing under his skin like electricity, the only indication being his finger tracing absently against the hard edge of the scalpel, cold even through cloth. He knew what he was doing—he was procrastinating. He should get this over with quickly, turn the mutant in for someone else to handle, before he had the chance to justify making a poorer decision to himself. And yet.

"You should be more concerned about yourself," he continued. He might be tired, he might be cold, but he was hardly the one with a drying trail of blood on his temple. He was hardly the one on the run, the consequences lingering dark and severe if running failed. Then, with an exhale, the inquiry that had been evaded the entire time: "You escaped?" It would be unfair to say it was a legitimate question—no, he already knew the answer, and the steady gaze he pinned on the other said as much. There was no point in lying, and whether or not the mutant told the truth would speak more to his astuteness than anything else.

Word Count: 718 || Tags: Feliciano Vargas || Notes: N/A

by worldie on iof

[Feliciano Vargas]

The slim brunette couldn't help his little flinch at the sudden bark of laughter that escaped the blonde--not because the laugh was cruel or angry, but the unexpected sound itself hurt his ears. Focusing in so hard on the blonde's heartbeat, on the blonde in general, made his voice sound so much louder than natural. When Feliciano continued to stare the stranger, though, the other didn't seem particularly humored. Surprised, maybe. A bit irritated, that was also true. Still though, that overhanging sense of exhaustion clung to the blonde, drawing attention to slumped shoulders, tense muscles, and yet... Amber eyes glanced down, tracing along the other's arm and where his fingers were idly tracing over his thigh. The gesture wasn't anything meant to attract attention, he didn't think, but there was something there, hidden in the thick fabric of the man's clothes. Even with his sight he couldn't manage to make out the shape, but it could only be important if the blonde's fingers traced over the shape continuously. "As if I had a choice, the other scoffed, too quietly for anyone but Feliciano to hear.

A chill ran through the Italian; had nothing to do with the cold, either. Slowly, cautiously, Feliciano lifted his hands, swallowing nervously. The only reason to be rubbing over something like that was for good luck, or reassurance. The only reason that something like this could be reassuring...is if that item was a weapon. The mutant had seen the guards pull similar tactics, but in threatening manners instead; fat fingers wandering along the stiff batons to casually grasp the handle, a warning to anyone who earned that particular guard's ire. Dmitri, the guard he'd hit over the head, was more fond of his taser--and especially its effects upon Feliciano, after seeing how badly he reacted to electricity all those months ago.

Feliciano knew that some humans liked to wander the streets and attack one another--he never knew why, but he had been alerted of such hazards as a child, and that if he were ever bought, it was for some stupid reason his duty to protect the humans from this threat. At the same time, though, this didn't feel like the same kind of situation. So soon after his break-out, and rather than doing something he expected like saying "hand over your money" or the like, this man seemed like he was looking for something. So it had to be a person tasked with hunting down the mutants who'd escaped. How long had it been since he'd bashed that jerk Dmitri's head in? (Vaguely he hoped he hadn't killed the man but at the same time, he was a bit more worried about his own freedom to let that be more than a fleeting thought) How long has he been running? The humans really couldn't mobilize this quickly, right?

"You should be more concerned about yourself," the blonde added, only confirming the worries creeping on the brunette. Feliciano swallowed nervously, unconsciously shuffling back a step, away from the stranger. He should just turn around and bolt. Why was he still standing here? It was only a few feet's distance between them, sure, but if the Italian twisted around and ran, he'd be able to get away. The man before him seemed far too exhausted to keep up, and he certainly wouldn't have desperation on his side. "You escaped?"

There was no way he could hide what he was, now. Not from this man. The mutant inhaled a bit shakily, foot stumbling around one of those fallen boxes as he tried to back up a step. "A-Are you threatening me, ve..?" he asked instead, fear dragging at his words until they trembled in his throat. Maybe the blonde was reacting so badly to the state of himself--blood staining his skin. Maybe they already knew what he'd done. He'd hurt someone, after all. In a fit of agitated nerves, Feliciano lifted a hand and jerkily smeared the blood from his temple with his sleeve. "B-Because... I d-don't mean any harm, I swear. I'm just p-passing through." Amber eyes stared at the other, slightly too wide for fear of missing any sort of action--anything that could belie the other's intention to hurt him--or worse. "I-I just want to be left alone, si? Y-You probably do, too--you honestly don't look well, signore. Veee... you've got really dark bags under your eyes, a-and your eyes are really bloodshot. ...You're shaking, j-just like me," he added with a weak laugh, biting at the inside of his cheek. "I-I don't even know who you are, so... I-I'll just forget about you, y-you'll forget about me, and you go home and rest? How d-does that sound, ve?"

[Mihai C. Eliade]

there's a bad moon

rising

T

alking was a fine distraction, almost enough for him to buy into his own pretense of calm. The other's nervousness offset Mihai's anxiety as well, and it became easy to slip into his persona of composure, well-trained by the repeated lessons of the government. There was still tenseness—probably would be for days after this was over—but at least he could think a little more clearly, at least his insides had stopped writhing like some sort of parasite. Compartmentalize—his fears and unease and sense of self-loathing could come later.

The more time passed as they spoke, the brick wall hard against his back and the morning chill biting at his skin, that feeling of nausea began to still. It was instead replaced by a faint amusement as he watched the runaway back up again, into the pile of boxes. "A-are you threatening me, ve..?"

When the man spoke again, his voice was shaky, betraying his nerves if those frightened steps were not indication enough. There was hardly any danger carried in Mihai's words, his actions, and yet the other had retreated, his nervousness almost palpable. So that was how it was to be feared, was it? How strange a situation it was, for Mihai—someone who was daily disdained and scorned—to inspire apprehensiveness in another. And if he found amusement in it, he must be just as heartless as their captors.

Mihai watched on with an impassive expression, carefully guarded against exposing his own anxiety, and gave a noncommittal shrug in response. Threats had not particularly been his intention, but again, he wasn't going to dispel whatever conclusions the other drew from their current situation. At least if he thought that Mihai had something over him, he might be deterred from attacking or running away.

"It won't be necessary if you'll cooperate," he said mildly. His fingers had stilled against the hard press of the blade in his pocket, but his hand still lingered against his leg; the trespasser may not have proved to be hostile yet, but Mihai had considered it could easily be a ploy, though he doubted it. It was far more likely that the fear was genuine, and thus all the more dangerous. Cornered animals with nothing to lose always had the hardest bites. He should know.

He listened without change in expression as the man made his excuses, albeit not terribly convincing ones. Mihai was growing more and more convinced that the other was exactly as earnest and fragile as he seemed; he wasn't a liar, and if so, a very poor one. "'Just passing through'?" Mihai repeated, the corner of his lips curling up into an amused, sardonic smirk. "Where are you going?" The other probably wouldn't be able to answer that either—both of them knew. It was cruel to be pressing him with questions to which he wouldn't be able to respond, but perhaps Mihai had taken something more from the humans than their abuse, their disgust, their addictions. Perhaps he'd inherited their twisted sense of humor too, their love of consuming those weaker than they. What an irony that would be, what an abomination. He wished he was as frightened of the possibility as the other mutant was of him—but there was always later, and maybe the fear would come then. For now, it remained safely tucked away, the situation at hand warranting all his attention and emotional detachment.

The man continued to talk, more encouragements to try to get Mihai to leave. "You honestly don't look well, signore. Veee... you've got really dark bags under your eyes, a-and your eyes are really bloodshot. ...You're shaking, j-just like me."

Mihai's lips pressed into a thin line at the comment; despite the current circumstances, it was never quite pleasing to have the negative aspects of his appearance pointed out. Usually, it was something he took great care to maintain, but it was the reality that he looked a wreck at the current; still, it didn't mean he liked someone to mention it. "You're really not much of a charmer, are you?" he said drily, eyes narrowing with slight derision. But the vexation was disregarded for the moment, interchanged for attention to the stranger's repeated proposal—if it could even be counted as such. It was as nonsensical as his former one, the suggestion that they both go their separate ways, that Mihai return home and rest his feet while the others—humans and mutants alike—went searching for the escapees. As if. It may be a fine thing to contemplate if he served the government out of a will of his own, but that was a fantasy which was all too far from the truth. He served because he must, because resisting was far worse.

"Lovely," he answered in flat tones, "if it were an option." Well, he could hardly gain anything from this conversation if he allowed the other mutant to guide the topic, and he had decided not to respond to Mihai's inquiry directly—probably rightly so—and so he changed direction. The blood on the other's temple—smeared now, half of it on his forehead and half of it on his sleeve—caught Mihai's eye. If it did belong to the man, then Mihai knew that he wouldn't have to be drawing fresh blood at least. Really, it was a tactic he should have considered sooner, but he blamed his oversight on his fit of nerves; now that he was a little calmer, he could recognize the advantages of linking up with the mutant, in case he should try anything rash. "You're bleeding," Mihai said. He pushed himself off the wall, the brick leaving a cold impression against his shirt, and stepped towards the runaway, slow and deliberate. It wouldn't do to have him bolting off now. "Did you happen to run into some trouble while you were, ah, 'passing through' here, dragule?"

Word Count: 988 || Tags: Feliciano Vargas || Notes: N/A

by worldie on iof

[Feliciano Vargas]

Things were not playing out the way Feliciano had hoped they would--it was a dim hope, but present all the same--and it was all he could to to not simply turn and bolt now, when he had the chance. To run now would be a sign of guilt, and as nervous, cold, and uncomfortable he felt, he knew showing such a thing would only lead him into worse trouble. He was guilty of releasing the other mutants and escaping himself, not to mention assaulting a guard to do so, but those were desperate measures. He hadn't wanted to hurt anyone, but to ensure his own freedom, and the freedom of everyone he could possibly help, the Italian felt that...he had only done what he could. To turn and run would only lead the man to chase him, and he's already on the run from so many who don't know his face, it would be a huge mistake to make an enemy out of someone who could recognize him in a crowd.

Fleeing now, when there were still other options, would only land him in a worse position than the one he was trapped in.

However, that didn't stop the way his body shivered when the stranger simply shrugged his shoulders and replied, almost carelessly, "It won't be necessary if you cooperate." The man before him didn't seem terribly big, terribly threatening, but there were plenty of fellow mutants he'd seen whose looks belied their true power;simply because the blonde was about his height and build (but much better-fed) didn't mean he couldn't out-run or out-muscle him. Desperation was on Feliciano's side, yes, but as much as his instincts said run run run, he had to be cautious as well. It would do him no good to run and make himself open to an attack.

An attack may not be coming now, but the way the blonde's face twisted in amusement in the face of his nervous explanations--lies--certainly didn't help Feliciano's nerves calm at all. "'Just passing through?'" the other reiterated as his lips curled up in an expression the Italian was far too familiar with. He'd seen a look on plenty of the guards down in the Underground, when they'd tease and insult you as they tied you down and readied you for the whip. "Where are you going?"

Where are you going, Feliciano?

"...I-I'm not really sure, yet," he said, honesty coating his words even as he curled in on himself, attempting to become a smaller target. "I have t-to meet a friend of mine, but we haven't decided where to s-see each other, ve, so I'm just trying to find a place to stay until I can find him." What'll he do if he gets caught mere hours after he'd managed to escape? What would Ludwig do if he didn't know about his friend's capture? ...Would he wander the city until being taken in himself, hopelessly trying to find the friend he'd promised to meet up with once things had gotten less hectic? The very thought of the German getting caught like that, searching for Feliciano, left the Italian's blood running cold and tears welled up in his eyes. "I-I just want to see him again, that's all, signore..."

He didn't care that the other seemed insulted by his genuine worries for the stranger's health. He didn't care that even these vague statements might be giving away too much information. He just wanted to be able to walk away and find a safe place to stay until he could see his brother and his best friend again. (He had no worries of Lovino being caught--his elder brother was too smart to go poking his nose where it didn't belong, let alone expose himself around anyone but someone he trusted 100%. No, Ludwig was the one who'd be too worried to be careful.) "P-Please, I'm not trying t-to insult you, signore, I s-swear," the Italian murmured, holding his hands up as a sign he means no harm--he's unarmed, and means no ill will. "I-I just--"

The stranger cut him off, amusement having drained away into something cold and unwavering; a sort of determination that set the hairs on the back of Feliciano's neck rising. "You're bleeding," he said, standing at his full height now. The words sent Feliciano's hand self-consciously rising once again to that abrasion adorning his temple, once again staining himself with blood. "Did you happen to run into some trouble while you were, ah, 'passing through' here, dragule?"

This set of words were paired with a few steps forward, and Feliciano immediately backed away in order to keep the distance between them the same. Cardboard rustled and scraped along the ground as he jostled and bumped them aside. Thankfully, due to their emptiness, the sounds weren't terribly loud, but to the mutant's ears they were like gunshots; a flinch escaped him. "T-That doesn't matter to me, ve," he hurried to explain, still keeping trembling hands in the air in his attempts for peace. "I-I really just want t-to keep moving, si? I-I have to find my friend, it's been so long since I've seen him a-and I'm worried, ve... S-So please, signore," the Italian bit his lower lip, staring beseechingly at the man who could ruin all of the half-baked plans forming in his head; destroy any dreams he had of spending his time with the people he cared about without fear of the brutal "attentions" of the guards coming down upon them. "Per favore, can't you j-just go home and forget about me..?"